


Agape; Eros; Philia; Storge

by setos_puppy



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Historical References, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Past Abuse, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setos_puppy/pseuds/setos_puppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Persian prince takes in a new slave that is different than many would think; their relationship is different than many would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agape; Eros; Philia; Storge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emocezi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocezi/gifts).



> Written back in 2010. Prompted by a friend who exploited my historian buttons and linked me to [this post](http://thelosers-fans.livejournal.com/35723.html%22) and went: "hey, what about Slaveboy!Jensen" and my brain (being that of a history major) went HURRRRR and this is what happened. Long story short; don't prompt me with history fic or I'll have to write it. Alright, being a history major and addicted to detail I couldn't use modern names. For the sake of this universe Jensen's name is Iakob - the Greek version of Jacob, and Cougar's name is Kurshid, which is a Persian name I thought sounded similar enough to cheat with. There are mentions of abuse and "punishment" regularly described as period typical, apologies ahead of time if they're triggering.

Iakob snarled as he was dragged through the dirt, arms bound tightly behind his writhing body as he attempted to get free. He whirled, striking quickly as he kicked his captor hard in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and ran. He weaved between the soldiers, even when one grabbed hold of the rope trailing along the ground Iakob quickly whipped his body and sent the man hurtling into a wall. It was only when two men launched at him, taking him out by the knees that he went down like a sack of grain. They hauled him up, strong arms about his middle, as he kicked in the air, cursing each one of them, his feet were lashed together and he was held by two strong men. Even as he writhed and wriggled, they did not release their grip. He spat at them and snarled, only to get a piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his face, allowing him to bare his teeth but do little else.

 

He was taken through wide doors and high walls into a garden. He was flung into the stone and dirt of the ground before the feet of a man. As Iakob rolled onto his side, then onto his back, he got a clear look of the man; skin bronzed, his hair dark and bound behind his head, his eyes were darker than his hair, and almond shaped. His linens were coloured and elegant, signifying his stature over the men who had brought him here, to this place of heat and sand. 

 

Iakob watched as the men spoke, listened to the guttural, barbarian language and wished he had died in battle. Almost anything would have been better than this; than slavery to a damned Persian. The guards left after a quick argument and Iakob watched with angry eyes as the man, who he assumed was his new ‘owner’ sunk to his knees over his head and removed the cloth from his mouth. Iakob took in a hard breath and flexed his jaw, moving his tongue over the roof of his mouth to encourage moisture. When he was relaxed, Iakob spat, the man avoided it, but did not look angered, only saddened, which angered Iakob more.

 

“What is your name?”

 

Iakob blinked, the man spoke Greek. Accented, and stilted, but it was Greek. But Iakob answered to no Persian. He bore his teeth and writhed, attempting to get a grip on anything to fight this man who now owned him. The Persian hushed him, making quiet noises that one would use to calm a horse and pressed down on his chest to still him. 

 

He tried again, his voice soft, his Greek soothing. “What is your name?”

 

Iakob swallowed thickly, his eyes closing in bitter defeat. He was tired; his body overworked and aching. “They call me Iakob.”

 

The Persian looked pleased, he nodded his head and his mouth moved, sampling the name. “My name is Kurshid. My men have liberated you from Greece and brought you to me. Do you know why you are here?”

 

“Because I am yours now. A gift of battle.”

 

Kurshid looked thoughtful a moment, tilting his head this way and that. “I suppose. My men saw that you were unhappy and mistreated in Greece. You will not be here.”

 

Iakob made a noise of disbelief. Lies! They all said the same. His former master in Athens had said the same thing. Then he had done things, disgraceful things, with his body. Punished him in ways no person should experience. The Persian would do the same no doubt. Persians were known to be decadent and excessive, no doubt more violent and adamant in the bedroom. 

 

Apollo save him, he was going to broken. 

 

Iakob watched as Kurshid stood and pulled a knife from within his robes, Iakob tracked the movements with his eyes. Kurshid knelt by his feet and slowly cut through the bindings there. Iakob wanted to lash out, but knew the removal of bindings was a test of trust. Trust that for some reason he had with this Persian. 

 

He wriggled his way into a sitting position, before kneeling and rising onto his feet. He stumbled a little as the feeling painfully rushed back through his body. Before he could walk away, strong, gentle hands settled onto his shoulder and the cool press of metal flashed over his wrists and his arms were freed. Iakob rose his disbelieving eyes to Kurshid, who gazed back at him passively; serenely. Iakob nodded once and was given a nod in return. He flinched visibly, out of reflex, when a hand neared his arm, and the arm immediately dropped and he watched a Kurshid swept in front of him, silently leading.

 

He was lead through an expansive home, with winding halls and intricate art that awed and stunned the mind. They stopped at a room filled with sweet fragrance and steam, the heat soothing and inviting to Iakob’s aching, tired body. His eyes immediately deflected to the floor and he stood still and silent, not wanting to be beaten (or worse) for being insolent. 

 

“You have traveled far, you likely wish for a bath, yes?”

 

Silence stretched between them; this was likely the time for the Persian to inspect him and approve of his body. Iakob swallowed thickly, the saliva sticking in his throat and making it difficult to breathe. Finally he nodded and willed the hands that would soon descend over his flesh to be quick and as painless as possible. 

 

Iakob rose his head when gentle fingers under his chin guided his gaze upward, back to the deep, black pools of Kurshid’s eyes; soft and sure. Smooth hands stroked over his cheeks, thumbs running over the line of his jaw, before falling to the thick material of his himation, nimble, quick fingers removed the simple pins securing it in place of his chiton. The faded grey linen pooled about Iakob’s feet and without a word or prompt the Greek pushed the material away delicately with his foot. 

 

Delicate hands smoothed over his sun-roughened shoulders and thumbs brushed at the broaches holding his chiton in place about his shoulders. Instead of undoing the broaches Kurshid’s hands moved to the belt securing Iakob’s chiton about his waist. A firm tug set the knot loose and the piece of cord fell to the ground, causing the long piece of cloth about Iakob’s body to billow slightly, giving a slight glimpse at his body below. 

 

As the hands returned to the broaches about his shoulder Iakob turned his eyes downwards in shame and shut them as hot tears coursed down his face. He would never tremble, nor give word of his disgust or fear of unwanted hands and eyes on his body, but it boiled deep within him. He knew the Persian’s words had been lies. They were all the same; wanting his body for their own illicit pleasure, and leaving him shattered and empty when they were done with him.

 

Kurshid’s thumbs brushed over his jaw again, collecting his tears and wiping them away. A firm grasp of finger and thumb on his jaw made Iakob open his eyes and look at him. Iakob took in an unsteady breath as his eyes overflowed again and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his jaw from trembling. Hot, dry lips pressed to his forehead and soft hands pressed to his cheeks as Kurshid drew their bodies together. 

 

“I will never hurt you, _dara_.” His voice was soft as he spoke into Iakob’s hair. “May I have your permission to remove the last of your clothes?”

 

Iakob inhaled sharply, the force and suddenness of it burning through his throat. Permission... Tears wet his cheeks again and Iakob was silent and still before gently nodding his head against Kurshid’s chest. Kurshid’s hands moved slowly, with time to be stopped, as they undid the broaches on the shoulders of his chiton and sent the linen flowing off of his flesh and left Iakob’s body naked to Kurshid’s eyes. 

 

Kurshid moved his hands gently, slowly over Iakob’s body, taking note of when the Greek twitched away in fear or discomfort and ceased when it happened, only to start fresh elsewhere. He gently turned Iakob in place, a noise of surprise leaving his throat when he peered at the abuse his back had suffered; littered with overlapping scars descending down from his shoulders to his buttocks and some even daring to dip as low as just above his knees. Some of the scars were mere memories of the flesh, leaving behind only faint white marks, some were a newer pink and still raised from the rest of the flesh of Iakob’s back. Even still there was some flesh that was blackened or red and split, indicating the kiss of a whip only days old. 

 

Kurshid lead Iakob to the edge of the pool of steaming water and held the Greek’s arms as he stepped into the hot water and lightly swam out into the mosaic bottomed pool. Kurshid watched the younger male with proud eyes before nodding to himself. He lightly picked up the weaved basket with oils and lightly pushed them out into the water. 

 

“Enjoy yourself. I will retire to my room, if you require anything the bath attendants are on the other side of the door and will gladly help you.”

 

Iakob turned, only to find the room empty of all but himself, softly playing music that filtered in from an adjoining room and sunlight. Iakob took in a breath and held it a long moment before releasing it. He really was alone. Kurshid trusted him enough to be left alone; trusted him not to run; trusted him to be given trust. Such a strange master, asking for permission, giving trust and respect. It made Iakob feel strange. It made him want to keep that respect; that trust. 

 

It made him feel safe. 

 

Iakob lightly pulled over the oils, ones he recognized for hair, and ones for skin and pulled the stopper out of the delicate jar and poured some of the thick fluid into his palm before working his hands together and working it through his hair. As he let the oil set, Iakob found the oils for skin, set with strange granules in them, but worked the sweet liquid over his flesh. He hissed when it sunk into an open sore, but made sure to cleanse his body. Once he was finished he took in a breath and sunk under the surface of the water to work the oil from his hair. 

 

As he resurfaced and relaxed in the water, Iakob let his eyes drift shut. His previous masters had never been this kind. They used him for his body, his youthful appearance, used him to entice people into shops and when they grew tired of him they traded him or tossed him to do hard labour. That was when the whip came, or the rough entry into his body; painful and bloody, sure to put him in his place. Yet here was this man who owned him and treated him like a treasure. With gentle words and gentler hands. A man who had yet to call him a slave, yet to put him down in the dirt, who had not yet ordered him to call him _kyrios_. 

 

Bringing himself to the edge of the pool, Iakob pulled himself out and made his way towards the folded square of coarse linen to dry himself off. He was careful with his back and carefully folded up the linen when he was done and set it aside. There was fresh, deep red linen set aside on a bench with a soft rope for a belt. Iakob wordlessly unfolded the long drape of material and worked it about his body in the familiar form of a chiton. His hand paused over the pins, set with stones and made from gold, too good to be used by a slave. Swallowing and pushing aside his hesitation, Iakob picked up the pins and worked them into the shoulders of his chiton before firmly knotting the silken rope about his waist. 

 

Pulling himself up, Iakob moved to the door and opened it, slipping into the hall. He found a pleasant looking woman standing on the other side, dressed in sheer linens to show her ample breasts and toned stomach, before thicker material wrapped about her waist. Her full, dark hair was pulled above her head and set securely with fancy pins and combs, her bronze skin brushed with makeup. She smiled at him pleasantly and bowed in his direction. 

 

“Welcome. I am Parveen, and I have been asked to show you to your room.” 

 

Her Greek was stitled, clearly rehearsed, but Iakob smiled politely in her direction and took the simple sandals from her, and slipped them on his feet as he followed her through the winding halls. As she spoke in halting Greek, Iakob learned she was a concubine in Kurshid’s brother’s collection and that her mother was an attendant to the Queen. Iakob didn’t say anything to her, instead offered her serene nods and fleeting smiles.

 

“This is your room with the second prince.”

 

Iakob watched as she bowed to him again before vanishing around another corridor. He turned to the door, high and arching, and took in a deep breath, before pushing it open. The room was darker, the doors to a balcony closed off, light filtering through slats in the wood, and lamps flickering with flames. As Iakob’s eyes swept over the room, every so often returning to the silk and cushioned bed with high posts adorned with beads and sheer material, Parveen’s accented Greek pronounciation of ‘concubine’ echoed through his mind. Was that what he was? A concubine? A glorified whore? Sickness pooled deep in his stomach as he stepped further into the room. 

 

He saw Kurshid reclined on a couch reading a scroll that was lit with the aid of a nearby lamp. His thick black hair was free from the bindings it had been in earlier, flowing over the shoulder of his purple robe in a cascade. Beside the couch was a table adorned with fruit, cheese, bread and wine. The sight of it made Iakob’s mouth water, he had been without food for just under four days; a punishment dolled out by his last master. 

 

Stepping forward with a quiet noise, Iakob ducked his head in greeting as Kurshid rose his eyes from his scroll. A smile took hold of Kurshid’s face and he quickly rolled up the scroll and set it aside on a second table with a quick stretch of his body before sitting up and motioning for Iakob to join him. Iakob stepped forward hesitantly, conflicting thoughts of trust and fear of concubinage running through his mind. Settling on trust Iakob sat on the couch, removing his slippers before folding his feet under himself, and rose his face to Kurshid’s eyes for inspection. 

 

Kurshid touched lightly at the soft curls about his face and then lightly brushed the side of his face with the back of his hand, a smile on his lips. “Better. Do you feel better?”

 

Iakob opened his mouth to reply, having not spoken since he declared himself as belonging to the Persian, but instead closed his lips and nodded, not ready for words. The soft inquiry if he was hungry was replied to with another nod and a plate filled with fruit, cheese and bread was quickly deposited in his lap. Moments later a goblet with water cut wine was pressed into his hands. Iakob ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick, all under the hawk-like gaze of Kurshid, who nodded with pleasure as Iakob ate. 

 

No master had ever cared this much before. Masters only took, never gave. The only ones Iakob knew to give, to dote, were those with bed slaves, those who cared for their concubines. He forced himself to swallow the bread. There was that word again. _Concubine_.

 

He could almost choke on it. 

 

Hatred seethed inside him. 

 

Before he could even think he was lashing out, the plate of food falling to the ground and skittering away as he flung himself up from the couch and launched the full goblet of wine at the Persian. It splattered hard on the side of his face and down the front of his robe, soaking in dark and red like blood. Iakob’s eyes widened in horror at the realization of what he had down and the goblet fell from his hands and shattered on the ground before he turned heel and ran. 

 

Fear seeped through all of him as he bolted through the door into an adjoining room and then wrenched open a second before launching himself into the hallway. His bare feet cut from the shards of the goblet and pounded hard and fast on the stone floor of the hallway. Air burned through him as he gulped it in and rounded yet another corner and followed a staircase down. His back ached with phantom pains and all he could think of was how this would surely get him killed. 

 

A strong hand clamped down on his wrist and pulled and Iakob went rigid before falling to the ground in fear. He could not think. Arms encircled him as he wept and trembled, quietly begging for mercy. He was going to die, here in this stairwell in Babylon. 

 

“What have they done to you to make you so afraid and angry?” Gentle hands worked over his shoulders as a quiet voice soothed his worries away. “What has made you so distrustful, hm?”

 

Iakob merely shook his head and clung to Kurdish, unable to believe his luck. Angry at himself, at the Persians, at everything. “Why do you not call me slave? Why do you not beat me?”

 

“Because you are not a slave and do not deserve any beatings.”

 

“A concubine then. I am your whore. Is that it!?”

 

“Hush. No. Do not say such things. Come, we will talk in my room.” 

 

Iakob allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and lead once again back to Kurshid’s room, which had already been cleaned, and sat back down on the couch. Kurshid took a warm cloth and wiped his face clean of tears before pressing his mouth to Iakob’s forehead. Iakob waited in silence as Kurshid changed his robes and then sat back on the couch beside him, taking his hands and squeezing them softly. 

 

“Do not debase yourself, dara. You are too precious to be given any such title. Do not think so little of yourself.”

 

“What am I then?”

 

“You are mine.”

 

Iakob rose his eyes to Kurshid’s, confusion clear in his expression. “I do not understand.”

 

“A slave is used for labour, a concubine for sex with whomever they are told to have sex with. You are mine. No one may touch you. Nor must you lift a finger for anything you desire. You are merely mine, dara.”

 

“What is that word?”

 

“It means ‘star’. It is what you are, just as you are mine.”

 

Iakob opened his mouth to speak but settled his head on Kurshid’s chest instead. Kurshid wrapped his arm around Iakob’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

 

“Was it the Greeks who made you so distrustful?”

 

Iakob nodded his head. “I was born a slave. As was my mother. Her mother was from Phrygia, we were taken from there long ago. I was taken from the house I shared with my mother when I was five. I was used in shops. When I turned thirteen my first master used me for his own pleasure. He did it often, and it hurt. When I was sixteen I was traded to another master because my master lost interest in me. He did the same. Used me because I was beautiful, hurt me. When I was eighteen I damaged something in his shop by accident, he beat me and used me for three days before declaring me an outdoor slave. I worked in the fields for three years and now I am here.”

 

Kurshid made a noise of disbelief and anger, his hands curling tighter around Iakob, wanting to keep him close and safe. “Did they ever give you pleasure?”

 

Iakob shook his head. “No. That isn’t the point of a slave.” 

 

Kurshid frowned deeply. Even concubines were given a chance to share in the pleasure they were giving. In fact, it was frowned upon if they did not enjoy themselves, even the eunuch concubines; at least in his father’s court. Here was this beautiful, shining boy, and he had known nothing but pain and fear. 

 

“Will you let me show you pleasure?”

 

Fear and distrust flashed in Iakob’s eyes and he withdrew away from Kurshid, just slightly; unsure. “But it hurts.”

 

“There are other ways of pleasure. I will not enter you.”

 

Iakob watched him with clouded eyes before nodding slowly. “You will stop if I ask?”

 

It pained Kurshid that it had to even be asked. “Of course.”

 

“Very well.”

 

“Come with me.”

 

Kurshid stood, his hands locked with Iakob’s and lead the younger Greek towards the softness of his bed. Kurshid lay the other out on the piles of cushions before sliding in next to him; taking his time to move slow. He watched Iakob track him with his eyes and moved towards him slowly, mouth pressing familiarly against his forehead and then his cheeks, chin and slowly moving towards Iakob’s mouth. Kurshid was delighted when Iakob bowed lightly off the bed and met his mouth, their lips pressing softly together. 

 

While Iakob was distracted, Kurshid unknotted the rope about his waist and removed the pin on the left hand side, pushing the material to the right and ran his hand over Iakob’s heaving chest as his mouth moved over Iakob’s neck. Iakob squirmed, a soft noise of shock leaving his mouth as he shivered. 

 

“Good?”

 

Iakob nodded, his body jolting. “Yes.”

 

“Good...” Kurshid’s mouth pressed against Iakob’s shoulder as his hand wrapped around Iakob’s slowly stirring arousal and rubbed his thumb along the length of it. Iakob inhaled sharply, a hand twisting into the silk of the linens as his hips stuttered up. 

 

“That... Oh...” 

 

Kurshid smiled, his eyes locked on Iakob’s face as his eyes widened and mouth parted in shock when the prince began stroking. Iakob’s breath came in gentle, rushed pants and he gave quiet mewls, his mouth loose and open. Kurshid pushed himself up and pressed their mouths together, pleasantly surprised when one of Iakob’s hands knotted into his hair. 

 

When he pulled away Kurshid smiled and pressed their mouths together chastely before sliding down to press his mouth to Iakob’s chest when he licked and sucked playfully; searching for the Greek’s weak spots. He grinned when Iakob arched up with an unrestrained cry and then fell against the bed panting and twitching, clearly close to his peak and drowning in pleasure. 

 

Tears of pleasure wet Iakob’s face as he thrashed and his hips pushed up in needy abandon. “I... I...” 

 

“It’s alright, dara, let it go.” 

 

Iakob’s body locked in pleasure and he turned his head into the pillows, his hand groping out and Kurshid’s hand shot out to lace their fingers together. Iakob squeezed tightly as he sobbed and let everything he had go. Kurshid’s hand stroked slowly, working Iakob through his pleasure before finally releasing him and wordlessly wiping his hand on the bed covers. 

 

As Iakob gathered himself, Kurshid gently redressed him and crawled in beside him, pulling him against his body. Iakob slowly let his eyes flutter open and he looked about the room, bringing himself back down to earth and smiled; a genuine, clear smile. Kurshid stroked his thumb over Iakob’s cheek and pressed their mouths together before wrapping his arms around Iakob and resting their foreheads together.

 

“That was beautiful.”

 

Iakob made a noise of contentment and burrowed against Kurshid. “Thank you.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For proving to me that Aphrodite exists.”

 

Kurshid smiled and pressed a light kiss to Iakob’s forehead. “Rest, dara. I will be here in the morning.”

 

Iakob nodded his head and slowly let his eyes drift shut before allowing Morpheus to guide him into the realm of dreams. 

 

Watching Iakob for a long moment, Kurshid reached over and extinguished the lamp beside the bed before pulling the other into a tight embrace and covered him before joining his lover into sleep.


End file.
